


And He Was Nothing

by jackstanifold



Series: Who We Are, In The End [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Jack Manifold-centric, OOPS I AM A JACK MANIFOLD APOLOGIST FUCK, Rewrite of a previous work, Self-Esteem Issues, Villain Jack Manifold, but it's okay because he's seggsy, it's not permanent but, its okay though because he turns into a villain and thats inherently a power move, spoilers for the 3/1 streams, uhhh, why is that not a tag, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackstanifold/pseuds/jackstanifold
Summary: Jack had nothing, he was nothing, and he never won.Also known as two times Jack lost everything.
Relationships: Jack Manifold & Alexis | Quackity, Jack Manifold & TommyInnit, Jack Manifold & Wilbur Soot, Noah Brown & Jack Manifold
Series: Who We Are, In The End [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154630
Comments: 55
Kudos: 155





	1. ashes to ashes

**Author's Note:**

> look, my favorite trope is and always will be 'man realizes he's got power and immediately uses it for petty things.'
> 
> also, this is going to be pretty different from canon, because i refuse to admit how lame jack's third death was in canon. (i was watching his stream, it was sad.)

Jack was nothing. 

He’d never been anything. He was the kind of guy you met once, then forgot, a friend of a friend. 

“Oh, you know Jack Manifold?”

“Yeah, the skinny kid with the broken glasses and the bald head?”

“That’s the one!”

He was nothing, and no one, and because of that, he’d always expected to die, in the way that background characters always die. It wasn’t going to be a martyr’s death, but maybe he’d even get a line in first.

He never expected it to hurt. 

Of course it hurt. He’d heard the stories before, he thought he knew what to expect.

He’d heard from Tommy, back before he was exiled, the boy squirming at the memory as he talked about the pain, the cold, the fear. 

He’d heard from Punz, the man laying on his back, staring at the sky in a strange, melancholy sorrow as he described the feeling of his body turning into nothing. 

He’d heard from Skeppy, the trickster’s voice trembling as they sat together and watched the waves crash on the waves as he talked about sacrificing himself for someone he loved more than life itself.

He’d known it would hurt.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt this bad. The firework stuck in his stomach didn’t kill him instantly, burning, popping, destroying his guts bit by bit as he collapsed. He heard others cry out, but he was in too much pain to do anything. 

It took nearly five minutes for his mind to give up, for his body to go limp for the last time.

The void was probably scarier than the dying by a million times. He just floated there, in the dark, in the cold, in the nothing, his eyes straining in the pitch black, his hands reaching for something. Anything.

He respawned among a dozen others, all of them sobbing and clutching their guts. He was in pain. He was in so much pain, but he didn’t say anything to Niki when she handed him a bottle of regen and told him to help out one of the others. 

He did, helping around Pogtopia, cracking jokes, trying to raise people spirits, but after a while, he went back to Manburg, went home, and cried himself to sleep, trying not to remember the feeling of his body being torn apart.

He never went back to Pogtopia after that, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stand listening to people speak of their own deaths as if it made them special, wouldn’t be able to hear Tubbo talk about his execution as if it made him a hero, when dozens others went out the same way.

Pogtopia was full of heroes, and he was just a guy.

Tubbo and Tommy were both just as dead as he was, both just as fucked as he was, so they were in the same boat, and it was sinking fast. The two of them just had life jackets.

The battle of Manburg happened, not that he cared. He’d built a house on the outskirts of Manburg as he watched the world crumble. 

Not a lot of other people stayed neutral, he noticed. George was oblivious to the destruction, the Badlands seemed to switch sides as they saw fit, and Karl had his own plans in mind, but Jack just shook his head and went back to setting up his new home. 

He declared himself separate from L’Manburg, and Tubbo had agreed, telling him he was officially his own state, Manifoldland, and had nothing to fear from L’Manburg. He’d believed him.

He should not have believed him, especially when Fundy and Quackity showed up at his door with sadistic grins spreading over their faces.

They offered him a deal, in the end. Rejoin L’Manburg, or lose another life. 

It wasn’t much of a choice.

Things were a sickening blur after that. Dream threatened L’Manburg (again), Tommy got exiled (again), and Tubbo caved to the slightest bit of peer pressure (again and again and again.)

Finally, Jack grew tired of being ignored, being treated like he hadn’t been there in the first war, fighting alongside the others, he needed someone who would treat him like a human being, not just a joke. Fundy was a dick, Eret was a traitor, Wilbur was dead, Niki was busy and Tubbo had bigger things to worry about.

Which left one person to talk to.

“Tommy! Hey, how’re y-”

He was cut off by a fist in his gut. The next thing he knew, he was dangling from the narrow walkway by his arms, legs kicking the air violently as he tried to get back up. Tommy did nothing to help, just staring at him as he did everything he could to just  _ stay alive _ .

Then the boy was screaming at him about loneliness and friendship, and he didn’t know what was going on. If course Tommy was his friend, it wasn’t that he didn't care, he just didn’t realize the younger boy even remembered him anymore. 

It wasn’t like Tommy’d ever made much attempt to act like a decent fucking human to Jack.   
  


Jack begged, pleaded, sobbed, but Tommy had just shaken his head, and kicked his old friend into the lava with a fake salute.

That death hurt the worst.

It was also the coldest. 

And the loneliest.

Jack had tried to lighten the mood. He stole Tommy’s prized possession then, a scarecrow he called his girlfriend. He thought things would get better, Tommy trying to get back at him, and him getting back at Tommy. A prank war, like back in the good old days.

But Tommy had just shrugged, and turned away to go back to Dream, and Jack felt something in his heart crack.

Tommy committed suicide a few weeks later, according to Tubbo, using up his last life, and Jack felt so goddamn guilty, so goddamn stupid.

And then Tommy was back, with Technoblade, the bastard who’d killed Jack the first time and he had no idea what to think.

Tommy had betrayed Techno, turning from his eldest brother to face Tubbo, and faintly, Jack wondered if the warrior was feeling the same dread, the same heartache he’d felt when Tommy had pushed him that last time.

The next day, Techno and Phil and Dream were back, and Jack was so so tired.

He stood his ground, with everyone else, charging the withers, fighting the best he could, watching as Techno spawned more, and more, and more, nine withers swooping through the air, sending people sprinting. He watched them close in on his house, and he felt a strange urgency well up inside him.

He had nothing. He had nothing but that house. That house was his only escape, the only thing on this server that truly belonged to him. So he ran, and he killed three withers, all on his own, and he looked around, hoping someone, anyone would notice and smile at him, a simple, ‘Good job, Jack, that was good’, or a nod, or any form of acknowledgement. 

But he was Jack Manifold, and so he was left with nothing.

No one had even noticed, he realized. He did everything he could to help them, and when he needed it most…

He was alone.

When it was said and done, L’Manburg a smoking crater in the ground, the L’Mantree burnt down, and his home singed and damaged, he just laid down in the grass, and stared at the sky.

Suddenly, laughter echoed through the crater, and he crept to the edge. Those three bastards stood at the bottom, revelling in the destruction.

Dream, the man he and his friends had fought against for so long, who had destroyed this nation, this land, while barely raising a finger, stood with his back to Jack, long dirty blond hair in a high ponytail, casually leaning against a chunk of concrete. 

Phil stood beside him, smiling lightly, face streaked with soot and blood. The little gems that hung from his hat and robes cast sparkles around the ruins, and Jack almost felt something like wonder, or admiration, or… regret? He looked like an angel, with his wings folded behind him, his eyes bright and fiery.

Technoblade was the one laughing, his curly hair spilling off his shoulders, the white-blond color it once was, now stained a dark pink with blood and clay. His single good eye glittered maniacally under his pig skull mask, and his arms swept in a wide arc as he twirled slowly, deep red velvet gown floating over the ground and causing pebbles to go skittering.

Jack remembered that laugh. The laugh of a man who pointed a firework down at him and smiled. The man who destroyed him, destroyed his home, destroyed his friends.

He stood up, almost expecting someone to step in, stop him, but no one noticed as he marched into the pit, to the three gods gathered in the center. 

No one ever noticed.

Techno noticed, of course, stopping his revelry to gaze at the young man walking up to him, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Jack really really didn’t want to hear it.

He wound back his arm, and slammed his fist into Technoblade’s mask, as hard as he could.

Something in his fist cracked, but he pulled back, and punched again, and again, and again, aiming for the head, the chest, the neck. Finally, a voice that sounded so similar to Tubbo’s yelled his name, yelled at him to stop, but he didn’t care.

He was shouting something too, something wild, and garbled and furious. People were turning to stare, gazing into the crater at the mere soldier slamming his clearly broken hands into the Blood God’s chestplate, tears pouring down his face. Good. Let them stare. They weren’t going to remember him anyway.

Suddenly, two huge hands caught his wrists, forcing him to stop- almost a pitying gesture- and he stared up at the amber eyes of the most infamous killer in the dimension, and he felt nothing but rage. He slammed his head forward, into Techno’s mouth.

It didn’t do much, apparently, other than amuse the warrior, and he gave the boy a half-pitying smile before turning to glance at Phil.

“Mmmm… Thank the gods that L’Manburg has the great Jack Thunder Manifold here to keep them safe.”

Jack felt his heart plug as soon as his name left the lip of the other man, and he gulped. How did he know his name? He was nothing, a speck of dust in a ruined city. Finally, Techno turned his gaze back to him, and released him. Jack stumbled back a couple steps, before watching the other man pull out his sword.    
  


He was going to die. He was going to loose his last life right here, right now, and he smiled.

“Do it.” His voice shook, but his heart burned with an intensity he was almost scared to acknowledge. “Kill me. I’m done. You win.”

Technoblade frowned at him, levelling the sword at his neck, but he paused. “...Do you have any last words, Jack Manifold?”

Jack hesitated. Did he? He’d never really thought it through, last words were something for heroes, for people who appeared on the book cover, for people who were worth remembering. He couldn’t think of anything, other than… “Just get it over with, bitch.”

And then Techno pulled back the sword and swung. 

That death was the least painful. There was a moment of agony, as there always was, but it bled out quickly, along with the boy.

So he was in the void. Forever alone. Cold, tired, and alone.

Jack cried then. He hadn’t really cried in a long time, he realised, but sitting alone in the void seemed like the best time to do it.

“Hello.”

“...Wilbur?”

“Jack.”

“You look... nice.”

“Thank you. Pros of being dead, I suppose. I can make myself look good, and I don’t even have to shower.”

“Oh. Makes sense. Am I…am I here for good? Like, I can’t leave?”

“I’m… not sure? Everyone’s souls split in two when they die, the ghost bit and the soul bit. Your ghost is probably down there, somewhere, but hypothetically, you can switch with it-”

“No, I don’t want to be a ghost. I’ve met yours, he’s a bore.”

“...Ouch?”

“No offense. I don’t want to be a ghost, I just want to be me.”

“... Jack?”

  
“Yeah?”

“You weren’t much to begin with. Why go back?”

“What?”

“You… you were kinda the least… well, the _least_ person I knew. You really want to try so hard to get back, when no one would even notice?”

Jack didn’t respond to that.

He just started walking.

For a while, Wilbur walked with him, trying to get him to stop, but, eventually, he gave up, letting him go.

He walked for hours, until the nothing turned into something. 

The Prime Path.

He went home, and got a bowl of soup, and went to bed.

Everyone noticed he’d died.

No one noticed he shouldn’t have respawned.

He didn’t care.

He marched to Niki’s house, first thing in the morning, with his proposition.

Tommy was the main character, and Jack was nothing, but he’d be damned before he let himself get ignored.    
  


He was everything, and he was nothing, and he knew the secrets of the universe, and he’d stared God in the eye and called him a bitch.

And Jack Manifold became a villain.


	2. dust to dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> was this what winning felt like?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIKE JACK MANIFOLD A NORMAL AMOUNT

Jack had wanted this.

He’d wanted this, he really had, he wanted Tommy to die, to suffer, to feel what he had felt, but here, now…

Fuck.

_ Fuck, why did it hurt. _

He stood in the Big Innit Hotel- no, the Jack Manifold Hotel, he was the owner, this was his- and stared down at his hands. 

“I won,” He muttered. “I won!”

He laughed, a hysterical sound that made him jump, and then shook his head. 

“I won.”

His hands shook. He ignored that, in favor of taking in a deep breath.

Somehow, it smelled like Tommy.

“Is this how it feels to win?”

There was silence, then, as he waited. Waited for what? Tommy?

Why was Jack crying?

He hadn’t noticed until a drop slipped off his nose and landed on the cool plastic of his right hand. He stared at it before sniffing and rubbing his arm over his face gruffly.

He won.

He won.

He won.

He started walking. He wandered towards the prison, aimlessly, staring up at the black walls, at the towering building, and he sighed.

“It was all because of him.”

Everything had been because of Tommy. It always had been. Tommy was the one to convince Dream to let him on the SMP, the one to convince Jack to stay, the one who had helped him grind for material, the one who had helped him build his house.

Manifold Land. 

He turned away from the prison, shoving his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants, hunching his shoulders.

He passed some people. Happy people, who laughed, and smiled, because they hadn’t won, they had nothing to win.

He watched them go by, half expecting Tommy to be among them.

He wasn’t, of course.

Jack stood in his house, running a hand over his head. The soft scar tissue that covered his face, his scalp, made him grimace. This was Tommy’s fault, he thought. Tommy threw him in the lava, and then had the nerve to say he had never tried to visit. Tommy dragged him into this mess, caused him to live a life without an arm, a life with a face marred by scars, a life haunted with nightmares.

He missed the times when he made jokes, laughing about everything, shrugging it all off, moving on, instead of pontificating about fault and justification of murder.

He missed innocence.

That innocence was taken by Tommy.

It was all Tommy’s fault.

He had wanted Tommy dead.

He had, he really had, but more specifically, he wanted to stare Tommy in the eye as he died, watching the life drain out of him.

Instead, Dream had taken that from him too. He was left with nothing,  _ again. _ No satisfaction, no power.

No purpose.

He fell to his knees.

He had pulled himself from hell for vengeance. He came back from the dead to kill Tommy, and that had been stolen from him.

Everything was always stolen from him, he had nothing, he’d never had anything.

He felt his eyes fill with tears once again.

“I won.”

He hadn’t.

He had hated Tommy. 

Had he?

No, he had. Right? That’s who he was, Jack Manifold, the man who tried to kill Tommy, who hated the boy more than anything.

Was he even a man?

He was only 18.

He was basically a kid, nothing more than a dumb teen.

Why did he feel so alone?

Tommy had always been there, hanging over his shoulder, laughing at him, insulting him, but he’d  _ been there. _

Jack let out another sob, pressing his forehead to the floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel his body.

He had hated Tommy.

Or maybe not.

Maybe, he was just mad.

Maybe, he had just wanted Tommy to fucking look at him again.

Maybe, he just missed his friend.

He shoved himself off the ground, stumbling against the wall, feeling his head knock against the windowsill. He looked around the house he’d built with his own two hands, and suddenly, everything smelled like Tommy, like the cherry shampoo he used, like the mint gum he always chewed, like stale Diet Coke, like  _ Tommy.  _

Jack stumbled into the kitchen, digging through the drawers until he found the matches, and then started to light them, letting them fall to the ground.

It took a whole book for the whole house to fill with smoke.

He stood in the middle of it, watching the flames crawl up the wall, watching his skin blister. It hurt. It hurt so much, but it felt so good.

He would’ve stayed there, would’ve died in the fire, but he saw something, sitting on the dining room table.

A piece of paper, slipped under his door weeks ago, a familiar scrawl on the charring parchment.

BITCH

That’s somehow what broke him, in the end.

He walked out, going back to the hotel, not looking back.

He passed Tubbo, and hesitated, looking at the boy.

“Hey… you okay?”

Tubbo paused, blinking at him. “Yeah, of course, man. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your best friend is dead,” Jack said, immediately flinching at his own bluntness. “I-I mean-”

“No,” Tubbo smiled. “No, he’s not. It’s Tommy. He’ll be fine.”

Jack hesitated, “Are you… are you sure?”

“Of course.”

He was in denial. Jack saw that, recognized that, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

He didn’t know what to do.

So he walked. He reached the hotel, walking through the front door. It smelled like Tommy here too, and he felt his heart ache.

His body wasn’t right.

It hadn’t been right since he died, his soul was rotting away, in a body far too desiccated for life.

His body wasn’t right, in fact, it was very very wrong, but he wasn’t sure what he could do about it.

“Jack?”

He looked up and just for a moment, the scars tracing the other man’s face looked like his, like a warped, dark mirror he really didn’t want to look into.

“Oh. Big Q, I-”

“Prime above, man, what… you look like shit, man,” Quackity hesitated. “You… have you been crying?”

Jack shook his head, stubbornly. “No. No, I’m fine.”

“...Okay… Okay, sure, whatever, we have shit to do, man.”

“Wh-what do we have to do?”

Quackity scoffed. “Tommy gets out today, remember? We gotta clean up, gotta… Jack?”

Jack was staring at him. “You haven’t heard?”

“...Heard what?”

Jack shook his head, slowly, carefully. “It’s… Tommy’s not getting out, Q. He’s… he’s not getting out.”

Quackity frowned. “Not… did Sam change his mind? Oh, jeez, I’ll talk to him, hang on-”

“Quackity, he’s dead.”

The man froze, mouth opening and closing, his eyes unfocusing. “N-no. That’s not. He can’t be…”

“He is.”

He looked away, towards the prison, and then he shuddered. “Okay. Okay, sure. Alright. This is… this is good for-” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Good for business. Right?”

“...Right.”

“I… I have to go. Sapnap is, uh. It’s his birthday. I’m his husband, y’know, can’t really… skip on that. Um.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, go on, I’ll take care of the hotel.”

The taller man hesitated, before nodding stiffly and turning to leave. Jack pretended not to her his sniff as he walked out, pretended not to see the tear roll down his cheek.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

Was this winning?

His heart felt empty, like it wasn’t beating as much as it should.

His hand shook as he reached for the doorknob.

Everything was too much.

He could feel his heart in his ears, his breath in his fingertips.

Everything was so quiet, a dull roar against the back of his head.

He couldn’t remember what Tommy’s laugh had sounded like.

He couldn’t remember what Tommy looked like.

He couldn’t

He was laying on the floor now, arms wrapped around his chest.

He had hated Tommy. Right? That’s what he said, who he was, but here he was, crying over him.

Tommy was never going to come rushing through the door again, laughing about some dumb prank.

Tommy was never going to make fun of his accent again, mocking him while Jack cranked it up a notch or two just for him.

Tommy was never going to whine about the taste of mushroom stew and insist Jack make him a cake.

Tommy was never going to steal his sunglasses and swagger around town, pretending to be him, laughing at Jack’s exasperation.

Tommy was never going to crawl into his bed because he had a nightmare and didn’t want to wake up Tubbo or Wilbur.

Tommy was never going to press his too cold hands to Jack’s lower back, cackling when he shrieked.

Tommy would never call him Jackie again.

Tommy would never let him brush his hair out again.

Tommy would never laugh again.

He had hated Tommy, he had, he had to have, because if he didn’t…

If he didn’t, why was he here? Why did he exist, if not for his hatred of Tommy?

Without Tommy, he had nothing.

Without Tommy, he was nothing.

Without Tommy-

“Jack,” A voice whispered. “Jack, it’s okay.”

“He’s gone,” Jack moaned, curling into a ball. “He’s gone, he’s dead.”

“I know, Jack.”

“He’s gone…” 

Arms wrapped around him, pulling him up, into a lap, against a chest.

Whoever it was was ice cold, and smelled of dust and mold, but he pressed himself against the body, sobbing so hard his chest hurt.

“I tried to kill him,” He choked out, his throat clogged with tears. “I wanted him gone, why do I miss him so much?”

“Shhhh. Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Foolish held him for hours, until he cried himself to sleep, when the totem finally stood, carrying him upstairs, laying him in the bed in the owner’s suite.

Jack hadn’t won.

He never won.

He had just misunderstood the rules of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I MAY BE A UNIRONIC MANIFOLD APOLOGIST FUCK

**Author's Note:**

> follow my tumblr @jackstanifold for more jack manifold brainrot.


End file.
